 CHAPTER 44 THE HOPE AND THE FEAR AND THE SORROW All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing, all the dull deep pain and constant anguish of patience. Lung fellow. The winter rain was pouring down in a steady continuous torrent. It was long since the gleam of sunshine had come through the windows of the prison room, but Don Juan Alvarez did not miss the sunlight, for he laid on his palate weak and ill, and the only sight he greatly cared to look upon was the loving face that was ever beside him. It is possible, by means of the embalmers' art, to enable buried forms to retain for ages a ghostly outward similitude to life. Tombs have been opened, and kings found their ink-clothed in their royal robes, stirred and stately, deceptor in their cold hands, and no trace of the grave and its corruption visible upon them. But no sooner did the breath of the upper air and the finger of light touch them than they crumbled away, silently and rapidly, and dust returned to dust again. Thus buried in the chilled dark tomb of his seclusion, Don Juan might have lived for years, if life it could be cold, or at least, he might have lingered on in the outward similitude of life, but Carlos brought in light and air upon him, his mind and heart revived, and just in proportion his physical nature sunk. It proved too weak to bear these powerful influences. He was dying. Tender and thoughtful as a woman, Carlos, who himself knew so well all the bitterness of unpainted pain and sickness, ministered to his father's wants, but he did not request her jailers to afford him any medical aid, though, had he done so, it would have been readily granted. He had good reason for seeking no help from man. The daily penance was neglected now, the rosary lay untold and never again would Ave Maria Santissima pass the lips of Don Juan Alvarez. Therefore it was that Carlos, after much thought and prayer, said quietly to him one day, My father, are you afraid to lie here in God's hands and in his alone, and to take whatever he pleases to send us? I am not afraid. Do you desire any help they can give, either for your soul or for your body? No, said the con de nuera, with something like the spirit of other days. I would not confess to them, for Christ is my only priest now, and they should not anoint me while I retain my consciousness. A look of resolution strange to see passed over the gentle face of Carlos. It is well said, my father, he responded, And God helping me, I will let no man trouble you. My son, said Don Juan one evening, as Carlos had beside him in the twilight, I pray you, tell me a little more of those who learned to love the truth, since I walked amongst men, for I would feign be able to recognize them when we meeting heaven. Then Carlos told him, not indeed for the first time, but more fully than ever before, the story of the Reformed Church in Spain, almost every name that he mentioned has come down to us surrounded by the mournful halo of martyr glory. With special reverential love he told of Don Carlos de Cesso, of Losada, of Darayano, and of the heroic Juliano Hernandez, who, as he believed, was still waiting for his crown. For him, he said, I pray even yet, for the others I can only thank God, surely, he added after a pause, God will remember the land for which these his faithful martyrs prayed and toiled and suffered. Surely he will hear their voices that cry under the altar, not for vengeance, but for forgiveness and mercy. And one day he will return and repent and leave a blessing behind him. I know not, said the dying man despondingly. The Spains have had their offer of God's truth and have rejected it. What is there that it said somewhere in the scriptures about Noah, Daniel, and Hope? Carlos repeated the solemn words. Though Noah, Daniel, and Job were in it, as I live saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter. They shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness. Do you fear that such a terrible doom has gone forth over our land, my father? I dare to hope otherwise. For it is not the Spains that have rejected the truth. It is the Inquisition that is crushing it out. But the Spains must answer for its deeds, since they consent to them. They hit not. There are brave men enough with weapons in their hands. Said the soldier a former days, with a momentary return to old habits of thought and feeling. Yet God may give our land another trial. Carlos continued. His truth is sometimes offered twice to individuals. Why not to nations? True. It was offered twice to me. Praise be his name. After an interval of silence, he resumed. My son always speaks of others, never of himself. Not yet have I learned how it was that you came to receive the word of God so readily from Julian. Then in the dark, with the father's hand in his, Carlos told for the first and last time the true story of his life. Before he had gone far, Don Juan started, half-raced himself and exclaimed in surprise. What a new you two once laughed. I, and bitter as the pain has been, I am glad now of all accept the sin. I am glad that I have tasted earth's very best and sweetest, that I know how the wine is red and gives its color in the cup of life. He honors me to put aside for him. His voice was low and full of feeling, as he said this. Presently he resumed. But the sin, my father, especially my treachery and heart to Juan, that rankled long and stung deeply. Juan, my brave, generous brother who would have struck down any man who dared to hint that I could do or think ought dishonorable. He never knew it, and had he known it, he would have forgiven me. But I could not forgive myself. I do not think the self-scoring passed away until that which happened after I had been nigh a year in prison. My father, if God had not interposed to save me by withholding me from that crime, I shudder to think what my life might have been. I am persuaded I should have sunk lower, lower, and ever lower. Perhaps even I might have ended in the purple and fine linen, and the awful pomp and luxury of the oppressors and persecutors of the saints. Nay, said Don Juan, that would never have been possible to thee, Carlos, but there is a question I have often longed to ask thee. Thus Juan, my Juan Rodríguez, know and love the word of God. He had asked that question before, but Carlos had contrived, with tucked in gentleness, to evade the answer. Up to this hour he had not dared to tell his father the truth upon this important subject. Besides the terrible risk that in some moment of fear or forgetfulness the prior or his agents might draw an unconscious word from the old man's leaps. There was a haunting dread of listeners at keyholes or secret apertures, quite natural in one who knew the customs of the Holy Office. But now he bent down close to the dying man and spoke to him in a long earnest whisper. Thank God! murmured Don Juan. I would have no earthly wish unsatisfied now, if only you were safe. But still, he added, it seemed if somewhat hard to me, that Juan should have all, and you, nothing. I nothing? Carlos exclaimed, and had not the room been in darkness, his father would have seen that his eye kindled, and his whole contents lighted up. My father, mine has been the best lot, even for earth. Word to do again I would not change the last two years for the deepest love, the brightest hope, the fairest joy life has to offer. For the Lord himself has been the portion of my cup, my inheritance in the land of the living. After his silence he continued, Moreover and beside all I have thee, my father. Therefore to me it is a joy to think that my beloved brother has also something precious, how he loved her. But the strangest thing of all, as I ponder over it now, is the fulfillment of our childhood's dream, and in me the weak one who deserved nothing, not in Juan the hero who deserved everything. It is the lame who has taken the prey. It is the weak and timid Carlos who has found our father. Weak, timid, said Juan, with an incredulous smile. I marvel whoever joined such words with the name of my heroic son. Carlos, have we any wine? Abundance, my father, answered Carlos, who carefully treasured for his father's use all that was furnished for both of them. Having given him a little, he asked, Do you feel the pain tonight? No, no pain, only weary, always weary. I think my beloved father will soon be where the weary are at rest, and where the wicked cease from troubling. He added mentally, not allowed. He would feign have dropped the conversation then, fearing to exhaust his father's strength, but the sick man's recklessness was soothed by his talk. Here long he questioned. Is it not near Christmas now? Well, did Carlos know that it was, and keenly did he dread the return of the season which ought to bring peace upon earth, for it would certainly bring the prisoners a visit, and almost certainly there would be the offer of special privileges to the penitent, perhaps sacramental consolation, perhaps permission to hear mass. He shuddered to think what a refusal to avail himself of these indulgences might entail, and once and again did he breathe the fervent prayer, that whatever came upon him, neither violence, insult, nor reproach might be allowed to touch his father. Moreover, amongst the great festivities of the season, it was more than likely that a sullen autodafé might find place. But this was a secret inner thought, not often put into words, even to himself, only if it were God's will to call his father first. It is December. He said, in answer to Don Juan's question, But I have lost account of the day. It may be perhaps the twelfth, or fourteenth. Shall I recite the evening psalms for the twelfth? As he did so, the old man fell asleep, which was what he desired. Half in the sleep of exhaustion, half in weary restlessness, the next day and the next night wore on. Juan Sanly did Don Juan speak connectedly. I think he will see my mother soon, said Carlos, as he bore to his lips wine mingled with water. True, breathed the dying Juan, But I am not thinking of that now. Far better, I shall see Christ. My father, are you still in peace resting on him? Imperfect peace. And Carlos said no more. He was content. Nay, he was exceeding glad. He, who in all things will have the preeminence, had indeed taken his rightful place in the heart of the dying, when even the strong earthly love that was twisted with the strings of life had paled before the love of him. And in the last watch of the night, when the day was breaking, he sent his angel to lose the captive's bonds. So gentle was the touch that freed him, that he who sat holding his hand in his and watching his face as we watched the last conscious looks of our beloved, yet knew not the exact moment when the deliverer came. Carlos never said, He is going. He only said, He is gone. And then he kissed the pale lips and closed the sightless eyes in peace. Now never thank God for bringing back their beloved from the gates of the grave more fervently than Carlos thanked him that hour for so gently opening unto his those gates that no man can shut. My father thy rest is one. He said, as he gazed on the calm and noble countenance. They cannot touch thee now. Not all the malice of men or of fiends can give one pain. A moment since so fearfully in their power now so completely beyond it. Thank God. Thank God. The rain was over and ere long the sun arose. In his royal robes of crimson and purple and gold to the prisoner from the dungeon of the Triana and never fresh wonder and joy. Yet not even that sight could win his eyes today from the deeper beauty of the still and solemn face before him. And as the soft crimson light fell on the pallid cheek and brow the watcher murmured with calm thankfulness. To him sun and daylight are is nothing for he sees the glory of God. Montgomery Carlos was still sitting beside that couch with scarcely more sense of time than if he had been already where time exists no longer, when the door of his cell was open to admit two distinguished visitors. First came the prior, then another member of the table of the inquisition. Carlos rose up from beside his dead and said calmly addressing the prior. My father is free. How? What is this? cried Frey Ricardo, his brow contracting with surprise. Carlos to decide along him to approach and look. With real concern in his stern countenance he stood for a few moments over the emotionless form, then he asked. But why was I not summoned? Who was with him when he departed? I, his son, said Carlos. But who beside thee? Then in a higher key and with more hurried intonation who gave him the last rites of the church? He did not receive them, my lord, for he did not desire them. He said that Christ was his priest, that he would not confess, and that they should not anoint him while he retained consciousness. The Dominican's face grew wide with anger even to the lips. Liar! he cried in a voice of thunder. How dares thou tell me that he for whom I watched and prayed and toiled after years and years of faithful penance has gone down at last unanointed and unassoiled to hell with Luther and Calvin? I tell thee that he has gone home in peace to his father's house. Blessed Pamer, liar, like thy father the devil, but I understand all now. Thou in thy hatred of the faith didst refuse to summon help. Didst let his spirit pass without the aid and consolations of the church. Murder of his soul. Thy father's soul. Not content even with that. Thou can't stand there and slander his memory, bidding us believe that he died in heresy. But that at least is false. False as thine own accursed creed. It is true, and you believe it. said Carlos in calm, clear, quiet tones that contrasted strangely with the Dominican's outburst of unwanted rage. And the prior did believe it. There was a sharpest sting. He knew perfectly well that the condemned heretic was incapable of wholesome. On a matter of fact, he would have received his testimony more readily than that of the stately Lord Inquisitor now standing by his side. In the momentary pause that followed, that personage came forward and looked upon the face of the dead. If there be really any proof that he died in heresy, he said, he ought to be proceeded against according to the laws of the Holy Office provided for such cases. Carlos smiled, smiled in calm triumph. You cannot hurt him now, he said. Look there, senor. The king immortal invisible has set his own signet upon that brow. That the decree may not be reversed, nor the purpose changed concerning him. And the peace of the dead face seemed to have passed into the living face that had gazed on it so long. Carlos was us really beyond the power of his enemies as his father was that hour. They felt it, or at least one of them did. As for the other, his strong heart was torn with rage and sorrow, sorrow for the penitent, whom he truly loved, and whom he now believed, after all his prayers and efforts, a lost soul, rage against the obstinate heretic, whom he had sought to be friend, and who had repaid his kindness by snatching his convert from his grasp at the very gate of heaven and plunging him into hell. I will not believe it. He reiterated, with pale lips and eyes that glimped beneath his cowl like coals of fire, then softening a little as he turned to the dead. Would that those silent lips could utter? Were it only one word to say that death found thee true to the Catholic faith? Not one word, so in the hopes of years. But at least thy betrayer shall be with thee amongst the dead to-morrow. Heretic! He said, turning fiercely to Carlos, We are here to announce thy doom. I came with a heart full of pity and relenting to offer counsel and comfort, and such mercy as holy church still keeps for those who return to her bosom at the eleventh hour. But now I despair of thee, professed impenitent dogmatizing heretic. Go thine own way, to everlasting fire! Tomorrow? Did you say tomorrow? Asked Carlos, standing motionless, as one lost in thought. The other inquisitor took up the word. It is true, he said. Tomorrow the church offers to God the acceptable sacrifice of a solemn act of faith, and we come to announce to thee thy sentence, well merited and long delayed, to be reliked to the secular arm as an obstinate heretic. But if even yet thou wilt repent and confessing and deploring thy sins supplicate restoration to the bosom of the church, she will so effectually intercede for thee with the civil magistrate that the doom of fire will be exchanged for the milder punishment of death by strangling. Something like a faint smile played round the lips of Carlos, but he only repeated. Tomorrow? Yes, my son. Said the inquisitor promptly, for he was a man who knew his business well. He had come there to improve the occasion, and he meant to do it. No doubt it seems to thee a sudden blow, and but a brief space left thee for preparation. But, at the best, our life here is only a span. Man that is born a woman, and but a short time to live, and is full of misery. Carlos did not look as if he heard. He still stood lost in thought, his head sunk upon his breast, but in another moment he raised it suddenly. Tomorrow I shall be with Christ in glory. He exclaimed, with the countenance as radiant as if that glory were already reflected there. Some faint feeling of awe and wonder touched the inquisitor's heart and silenced him for an instant, then recovering himself and falling back for help upon wanted words, of course, he said, I ain't ready to think of your soul. I have thought of it long ago. I have given it into the safekeeping of Christ, my Lord. Therefore I think no more of it. I only think of him. But have you no fear of the anguish, the doom of fire? I have no fear. Carlos answered, and this was a great mystery even to himself. Christ's hand will either lift me over it or sustain me through it, which I know not yet, and I am not careful. He will care. Man of noble lineage, such as you are, of high honour and stainless name such as you were, said the inquisitor, of time stretched shame more than agony. You, who are called Alvarez de Maniaia, what think you of the infamy, the loathing of all men, the scorn and mockery of the lowest robber, the zamara, the carousa? I shall joyfully go forth with him without the camp, bearing his reproach. And stand at the stake beside a vile ketiff, a miserable Mjöltyr convicted of the same crime. A Mjöltyr? Juliano Hernandez? Carlos questioned eagerly. The same. A softer light played over the features of Carlos. Then he should see that face once more, perhaps even grasped at hand. God was giving him everything he desired of him, he said. I am glad to stand here till the last at the side of that faithful soldier and servant of Christ, for when we go in there together I dare not hope to be so highly honoured as to take a place beside him. At this point the prior broke in. Senor, my brother, your words are wasted. He is given over to the power of the evil one. Let us leave him. And drawing his mantle round him, he turned to go, without looking again towards Carlos. But Carlos came forward. Pardon me, my lord. I have a few words yet to say to you. And stretching out his hand to detain him, he unconsciously touched his arm with it. The prior flung it off with a gesture of angry scorn. There was contamination in the touch. I have heard too many words from your lips already, he said. Tomorrow night my lips will be dust, my voice silent forever. So you may well bear with me for a little while today. Speak then, but be brief. It gives me the last paying, I think, to know on earth to part us from you. For you have shown me true kindness. I owe you not forgiveness as an enemy, but gratitude. As a sincere, though mistaken friend, I shall pray for you. An impenetratix prayers. We'll do my lord the prior, no harm. And there may come a day when he will not be sorry he had them. There was a short pause. Have you anything else to say? Ask the prior, rather more gently. Only one word, senor. He turned and looked at the dead. I know you loved him well. You will deal gently with his dust, will you not? The grave is not much to ask for him. You will give it, I trust you. The stern, sad face relaxed a little before that pleading look. It is you who have sought to rob him of a grave, said the prior. You who have defamed him of heresy. But your testimony is invalid, and as I have said, I believe you not. With his declaration of purely official disbelief, he left the room. His colleague lingered a moment. You plead for these senseless dust I can neither feel nor suffer. He said. You can pity that. How is it you cannot pity yourself? That which you destroy tomorrow is not myself. It is only my garment, my tent. Yet even over that Christ watches, he can raise it glorious from the ashes of the Chimadero as easily as from the church where the bones of my father's sleep. For I am his soul and body, the purchase of his blood. And why should it be a marvel in your eyes that I rejoice to give my life for him who gave his own for me? God grant he even yet to die in his grace. Answered the inquisitor, somewhat moved. I do not despair of thee. I will pray for thee, and visit thee again, tonight. So, saying, he hastened after the prior. For a season Carlos had motionless. His soul filled to overflowing with the calm, deep tide of odd and wandering joy. No room was there for any thought save one. I shall see his face. I shall be with him, for ever. Over the thing that lay between, he could spring as joyously as a child might leap across a brook to reach his father's outstretched hand. At length his eye fell, perhaps by accident, on the little writing-book which lay near. He drew it towards him, and having found out the place where the last century was made, wrote rapidly beneath it. To depart and to be with Christ is far better. My beloved father has gone to him in peace today. I too go in peace, though by a rougher path tomorrow. Surely goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life. And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos Imanaya And with a strange consciousness that he had now signed his name for the last time, he carefully affixed to it his own special rubrica or sign manual. Then came one thought of earth, only one, the last. God, in his great mercy, he grabbed that my brother may be far away. I would not that he saw my face tomorrow, for the pain and the shame can be seen of all, while that which changes them to glory no man knoweth. Save he that receiveth it, but wherever thou art. God bless thee, my Roy. And drawing the book towards him again, he added, as if by a sudden impulse, to what he had already written. God bless thee, my Roy. Soon afterwards the Alguacils arrived to conduct him back to the Triana, then, turning to his dead once more, he kissed the pale forehead, saying, Farewell for a little while. Thou didst never taste death, nor shall I. Instead of thee and me, Christ drank that cup. And then for the second time the gate of the Triana opened to receive Don Carlos Alvarez. At sunrise next morning its gloomy portals were unlocked, and he, with others, passed forth from beneath their shadow, not a return again to that dark prison there to linger out the slow and solitary hours of grief and pain. His warfare was accomplished. His victory was won. Long before the sun had arisen again upon the weary, blood-stained earth, a brighter sun arose for him who had done with earth. All his desire was granted, all his longings were fulfilled. He saw the face of Christ, and he was with him for ever. End of Chapter 45 Chapter 46 of The Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 46. Is it too late? Death upon his face is rather shy than shade. A tender shine by looks beloved made. His simmer's dying in a quiet place. E.B. Browning The mountain snow lay white around the old castle of Nuera, but within there was light and warmth. Joy and gladness were there also. Thanksgiving and the voice of Melody. For Dona Beatriz, graver and paler than of old, and with the brilliant luster of her dark eye subdued to a kind of Jewish softness, was singing a cradle song beside the cot where her firstborn slept. The babe had just been baptized by Fraser Bastion. With a pleading, whistful look had Dolores Astre Lord the day before what name he wished his son to bear, but he only answered. The air of our house always bears the name Juan. Another name was far dearer to memory, but not yet could he accustom his lips to utter it or his ear to bear the sound. Now he came slowly into the room, holding in his hand an unsealed letter. Dona Beatriz looked up. He sleeps, she said. Then let him sleep on, Senora Mia. But will you not look? See how pretty he is, how he smiles in his sleep and knows a dear of small hands. Have their share in dragging me further than you want of, might be atrease. Hey, what does that mean? Do not be grave and sad today, not today, Don Juan. My beloved, God knows I would not cloud thy brow with a single care if I could help it. Nor am I sad, only we must think. Here is a letter from the Duke of Savoy, and very gracious and condescending, too, inviting me to take my place once more in his Catholic Majesty's army. But you will not go? We are so happy together here. My Beatriz, I dare not go. I would have to fight. Here he broke off, and cuffs the hasty glance round the room, from the habit of dreading listeners. I would have to fight against those whose cause is just the cause I hold dearest upon earth. I would have to deny my faith by the deeds of every day. But yet, had I refused and not stand dishonored in the eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I know not. No dishonor could ever touch thee, my brave and noble Juan. Don Juan's brow relaxed a little. But that men should even think it did, is what I could not bear. He said, Besides, Does not seem to me, my Beatriz, that I dare bring up this child God has given me to the bitter heritage of a slave. A slave? Repeated Daniel Beatriz almost with a cry. Now, heaven help us, Don Juan, are you mad? You of noblest lineage, you alvarez de manhaya, to call your own firstborn slave? I call anyone a slave who dares not speak out what he thinks and act out what he believes. Returned on Juan sadly. And what is it that you would do then? Would to God that I knew, but the future is all dark to me. I cannot see a single step before me. Then Amigo Mio, do not look before you. Let the future alone and enjoy the present as I do. Truly that baby face would charm many a care away. Said Juan, with another fond glance at the sleeping child. But a man must look before him, and a Christian man must ask what God would have him to do. Moreover, this letter of the Duke demands an answer. Yay or nay? Señor Don Juan, I desire to speak with your excellency. Said the voice of Dolores at the door. Come in, Dolores. Nay, Señor, I want you here. This peremptory sharpness was very unlike the wanted manner of Dolores. Don Juan came forth immediately. Dolores signed to him to shut the door. Then, not till then, she began. Señor Don Juan, two brethren of the society of Jesus have come from Civi, and are now in the village. What then? Surely you do not fear that they suspect anything with regard to us? Asked Juan in some alarm. No, but they have brought tidings. Do you tremble, Dolores? Are you ill? Speak. What is it? They have brought tidings of a great act of faith to be held at Civi upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city. But towards the end of this month. For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other's faces. Then Dolores said in an eagier breathless whisper. You will go, Señor. Juan shook his head. What you are thinking of, Dolores, is a dream. A vain, wild dream. Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God. But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us. Said Dolores, large tears gathering slowly in her eyes. It is true. Juan mused. They may wreak their vengeance on the dust. And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them, I, a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Civi and back again. Juan hesitated no longer. I go. He said. Dolores seek free Sebastian and send him to me at once. Bid Jorge be ready with the horses to start tomorrow at daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare Dona at Beatriz for my sudden departure. Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard to speak. No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightest impression on his mind, or even to have been remembered by him. But at last he drew near Seville. It was late in the evening, however, and he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a village eight or nine miles from their destination. Suddenly, Jorge cried out. Look there, senor, the city is on fire. Don Juan looked. A lurid crimson glow paled the stars in the southern sky. With a shudder he bowed his head and veiled his face from the awful side. That fire is without the gate, he said at last. Pray for the souls that are passing in anguish right now. Noble heroic souls. Probably Juliano Hernandez, possibly Frey Constantino, was amongst them. These were the only names that occurred to Don Juan's mind, all were breathed in his fervent agitated prayer. Yonder is the Posada, senor. Said the attendant presently. Ne Jorge, we will ride on. There will be no sleepers in Sevilla tonight. But senor. Remonstrated the servant. The horses are weary. We have traveled far today already. Let them rest afterward. Said Juan briefly. Motion just then was an absolute necessity to him. He could not have rested anywhere within sight of that awful glare. Two hours afterwards he drew the rain of his weary steed before the house of his cousin, Doña Inés. He had no scruple in asking for admission in the middle of the night as he knew that, under the circumstances, the household would not fail to be a stir. His summons were speedily answered and he was conducted to a hall opening on the patio. Thither, after a brief interval, came Juanita bearing a lump in her hand, which she sat down on the table. My lady will see your excellency presently. Said the girl with a shy, frightened air, which was very unlike her, but which Juan was too preoccupied to notice. But she is much indisposed. My lord was obliged to accompany her home from the act of faith before it was half over. Juan expressed the concern he felt and desired that she would not accommodate herself upon his account. Perhaps Don Garcia, if he had not yet retired to rest, would converse with him for a few moments. My lady said she must speak with you herself. Answered Juanita as she left the room. After a considerable time Doña Inés appeared. In that southern climate youth and beauty fade quickly and yet Juan was by no means prepared for the changed, worn, haggard phase that gazed on him now. There was no pomp of apparel to carry off the impression. Doña Inés wore a loose dark dressing robe, and a hasty careless hand seemed to have untwined the usual ornaments from her black hair. Her eyes were like those of Juan who has wept for hours and then only ceased for very weariness. She stretched out both her hands to Juan. Oh Don Juan, I never meant it, I never meant it. Senora, my cousin, I have but just arrived here. I do not understand you. Said Juan, rising to greet her. Santa Maria, do you know not? Horrible. She sank into a seat. Juan stood gazing at her eagerly, almost wildly. Yes, I understand all now. He said at last. I suspected it. He saw an imagination in a black chest, with a little lifeless dust within it, her rude shapeless figure roped in the hideous samara and bearing in large letters the venerated name Álvarez de Santillanos y Meñalla, while she saw a living face that would never cease to haunt her memory until death shadowed all things. Let me speak. She gasped. And I would try to be calm. I did not wish to go. It was the day of the last auto, you remember, that my poor brother died, and altogether, but Don Garcia insisted. He said everybody would talk, and especially when the taint attached our own house. Besides, Don Juana de Bajorcas, who died in prison, was to be publicly declared innocent, and her property restored to her heirs. But, regard to the family, it was thought we ought to be present. Oh, Don Juan, if I but known, I would rather have put on a San Benito myself than have gone there. God grant, it did not hurt him. How could it possibly hurt him, my tender-hearted cousin? Hush! Let me go on now while I can speak of it, or I shall never, never tell you. And I must. He would have wished. Well, we were seated in what they called good places, very near the condemned. In fact, the scaffold opposite was plain to us as you are to me now. But that last time, and Don Ju Maria's look, and Dr. Cristobals haunted me, so that I did not dare to raise my eyes to where they sat. Not until long after the mass had begun. And I knew besides there were so many women there, ate on that dreadful top bench, doomed to die. But at last the lady who sat near me bade me look at one of the relaxed, a little man who was pointing upwards and making signs to his companions to encourage them. Do not look, senora, said Don Garcia quickly, but too late. Oh, Don Juan, I saw his face! His living face? Not his living face! cried Juan, with a shudder that convulsed his strong frame from head to foot. And the name, the one awful name that rises to all human lips in moments of supreme emotion, broke from his in a wail of anguish. Don Inés tried to speak but in vain. Thoroughly broken down, she wept and sobbed aloud. But the sight of the rigid, tearless face before her checked her tears at last. She gained power to go on. I saw him. Or an impale, of course, yet not changed so greatly after all. That same dear kind familiar face I had seen last in this room, when he caressed and played with my child. Not sad, not as though he suffered, rather as though he'd suffered long ago, but was beyond at all even then. A still, patient, fearless look, eyes that saw everything, and yet nothing seemed to trouble him. I bore it until they were reading the sentences and came to his. But when I saw the algoaziel strike him, the blow that relaxed to the circular arm, I couldn't endure no more. I believe I cried aloud. But in fact I knew not what I did. I knew nothing more till Don Garcia and my brother Don Manuel were carrying me through the crowd. No word! Was there no word spoken? Asked one wildly. No, but I heard someone near me say that he talked with that militair in the court of the Triana, and spoke words of comfort to a poor woman amongst the petonants, whom they called Maria Gonzalez. All was told now, maddened with rage and anguish, Juan rushed from the room, from the house, and without being conscious of any settled purpose, in five minutes found himself far on his way to the Dominican convent adjoining the Triana. His servant, who was still waiting at the gate, followed him to ask for orders, and with difficulty overtook him and arrested his steps. Juan's sternly silenced his faltering, agitated question as to what was wrong with his lord. Go to rest, he said, and meet me in the morning by the great gate of San Isidro. Nothing was clear to him, but that he must shake off as soon as possible the dust of the wicked cruel city from his feet, and San Isidro was the only tristing place without its walls that happened at the moment to occur to his bewildered brain. End of chapter 46 Chapter 47 of The Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 47 The Dominican Prior Oh, Dip is a wounded heart and strong, a voice that cries against mighty wrong, and full of death as a hot wind splite, doth the ire of a crushed affection light, hymns. Tell the prior Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Menyaia desires to speak with him in that instantly. Said Juan to the drowsy lay brother, who at last answered his impatient summons, lantern in hand. My lord has just retired to rest and cannot be disturbed. Answered the attendant, looking with some curiosity, not to say surprise at the visitor, who seemed to think three o'clock of a winter morning, a proper and suitable hour to demand instant audience of a great man. I will wait, said Juan, walking into the court. The attendant led him to a parlor, then holding the door ajar, he said, Let his Excellency pardon me, I did not hear distinctly his worship's honorable name. Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Menyaia, the prior knows it too well. It was evident from his face that the poor lay brother knew it also, and so that night did every man, woman and child in Seville, it had become a name of infamy. With a hasty, Yes, yes, senor. The door was closed, and Juan was left alone. What had brought him there? Did he mean to accuse the Dominican of his brother's murder? Or did he only intend to reproach him, him who had once shown some pity to the captive, for not saving him from that horrible doom? He himself scarcely knew. He had been driven, either, by a wild, unresunning impulse, an instinct of passionate rage, prompting him to grasp at the only shadow of revenge that lay within his reach. If he could not execute God's oval judgements against the persecutors, at least he could denounce them, a poor substitute, but all that remained to him. Without it, his heart must break. Yet that unresunning impulse had a kind of unconscious reason in it, since it led him to seek the presence of the Dominican prior, and not that of the far more guilty Munebraga, for who would accuse a tiger reproach a wolf? Words would be wasted upon such. For them there is no argument but the spear and the bullet. A man can only speak to man. To do free, Ricardo Justice, he was so much of a man that sleep did not visit his eyes that night. When at length his attendants thought fit to inform him that Don Juan desired to see him, he was still kneeling, as he had knelt for hours before the crucifix in his private oratory. Saviour of the world, so much did thou suffer. This was the key note of his thoughts. And shall I weakly pity thine enemies? Or shrink from seeing them suffer what they have deserved at thy hands, and those of the holy church? Alvarez de Santa Lanos, Imenya, waits below. Just then Don Frey Ricardo would rather have held his right hand in the fire than have gone forth to face one bearing that name. But for that very reason, no sooner did he hear that Don Juan awaited him, that he roped himself in his cowl and mantel, took a lamp in his hand, for it was still dark, and went down to meet the visitor. For that morning he was in the mood to welcome any form of self-dorture that came in his way, and to find a strange but real relief in it. Peace be with thee, my son. Was his grave but courteous salutation as he entered the parlor. He looked upon Juan with mournful compassion, as the lust of a race over which there hang a terrible doom. Let your peace be with murderers like yourselves, or with slaves like those that work your will. I fling it back to you in scorn. Was the furious reply. The Dominican recalled a step, only a step, for he was a brave man, and his face pale with conflict and watching grew a shade paler. Do you think I mean to harm you? cried Juan in yet furser's corn. Not a hair on your tonsured head, see there! He unbuckled his sword and threw it from him, and it fell with a clang on the floor. Young man, you would consult your own safety, as well as your own honor, by adopting a different tone. said the prior, not without dignity. My safety is little worth consulting. I'm a bold, rough soldier, used to peril in violence. Would it were such and such alone that you menaced, but fiends that you are? Would no one serve you for a victim save my young, gentle, unoffending brother? He who never harmed you, nor anyone? Would nothing satisfy your malice, but to amure him in your hideous dungeon for two and thirty long, slow months? In what suffering of mine and body God alone can tell? And then, at last, to bring him forth to that horrible death? I curse you! I curse you! Nay, that is nothing. Who am I to curse? I invoke God's curse upon you. I give you up into God's hands this hour. When he maketh inquisition for blood, another inquisition than yours, I pray him to extract from you murderers of the innocent, torturers of the just, every drop of blood, every tear, every pang of which he has been the witness, as he shall be the Avenger. At last the prior found a voice. Hitherto he had listened spellbound, as one oppressed by Nightmare, powerless to free himself from the hideous burden. Man! he cried. You are ravine the holy office! Is the Archfiend's own contrivance, and its ministers his favorite servants? Interrupted Juan, reckless in his rage, and defying all consequences. Blasphemy! This may not be born! And Frey Ricardus stretched out his hand towards a bell that lay on the table. But Juan's strong grasp prevented his touching it. He could not shake off that as easily as he had shaken off a pale, thin hand two days before. I shall speak forth my mind this once. He said. After that, what you please? Go on. Fill your cup full to the brim, emure, plunder, burn, destroy, pile up high as heaven your hectic tomb of victims offered to the God of love. At least there is one thing that may be said in your favor. In your cruelties there is horrible impartiality. It can never be spoken of you that you have gone out into the highways and hedges, taken the blind and the lame, and made them your burnt sacrifice. No. You go into the closest guarded homes. You take thence the gentlest, the tenderest, the fairest and the best, and of such you make your burnt offerings. And you. Are your hearts human, or are they not? If they are, stifle them. Crush them down into silence while you can. For a day will come when you can stifle them no longer. That will begin your punishment. You will feel remorse. Man, let it be go. Interrupt the indignant, yet half-frightened briar, struggling vainly to free himself from his grasp. See sure, blasphemies. Men only feel remorse when they have sinned. And I serve God and the church. Yet, servant of the church, for God, servant, I am not profane enough to call you. Speak to me this once as man to man, and tell me, did a victim's pale face never haunt you? A victim's agonized cry never ring in your ears? For just an instant the briar winced, as one who feels a sharp sudden pain, but determines to conceal it. There, cried Juan, and at last he released his arm and flung it from him. I read an answer in your look. You, at least, are capable of remorse. You are false there? The briar broke in. Remorse is not for me. No, then all the worse for you, infinitely the worse. Yet it may be. You may sleep and rise and go to your rest again untroubled by an accusing conscience. You may sit down to eat with the wail of your brother's anguish ringing in your ears, like Muna Braga, who sits feasting yonder in his marble hall with the ashes yet hot on the quimadero. Until you go down quick into hell and the pit shutters her mouth upon you. Then, then shall you drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his indignation, and you shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels in the presence of the lamb. Thou art to beside thyself, cried the briar, and I scarceless mad than thou to listen to thy ravings. Yet hear me a moment, Don Juan Ávarez. I have not merited these insane reproaches. To you and yours I have been more a friend than you what of. Noble friendship, I thank you for it as it deserves. You have given me this hour more than cause enough to order your instant arrest. You are welcome. It were shame indeed if I could not bear at your hands what my gentle brother bore. The lust of his race, the father dead in prison, the mother dead long ago, fair Ricardo himself best knew why, the brother burned to ashes. I think you have a wife, perhaps a child? Asked the prior hurriedly. A young wife and an infant son, said Juan, softening a little at the thought. While those your words have been, I am yet willing for their sakes to show you for parents, according to the lenity which ministers of the holy office have learned from their father the devil. Interrupted Juan, the flame of his wrath blazing up again. After what the stars looked down on last night, dare to mock me with thy talk of lenity? You are in love with destruction, said the prior. But I have heard you long enough. Now hear me. You have been ere this under grave suspicion. Indeed you would have been arrested only that your brother endured the question without revealing anything to your disadvantage. That saved you. But here he stopped, struck with astonishment at the sudden change his words had brought. A man stepped to the heart, makes snow outcry. He does not even moan or writhe, nor did Juan. Mutely he sank on the nearest seat, all his rage and defiance gone now. A moment before he stood over the shrinking inquisitor like a prophet of doom or an avenging angel. Now he cowered, crushed and silent, streaking to the soul. There was a long silence. Then he raised a changed sad look to the prior's face. He bore that for me? He said. And I never knew it. In the cold gray morning light, now filling the room, he looked utterly forlorn and broken. The prior could even afford to pity him. He questioned mildly enough. How was it you did not know it? Fray Sebastian Gomez, who visited him in prison, was well aware of the fact. In Juan's present mood, every faculty was stimulated to a natural activity. This perhaps enabled him to divine a truth which, in calmer moments, might have escaped him. My brother, he said, in a low tone of deep emotion. My heroic, tender-hearted brother must have bitten him conceal it from me. It was strange, said the prior, and his thoughts run back to other things which were strange also. To the uniform patience and gentleness of Carlos, to the fortitude with which, whilst acknowledging his own faith, he had steadily refused to compromise anyone else. To the self-forgetfulness with which he had shielded his father's last hours from disturbance, granted that the heretic was a wild beast, made to be taken and destroyed, even the hunter may admire unblamed the grace and beauty of the creature who has just fallen beneath his relentless weapon, something like a mist rose to the eyes of Fray Ricardo, taking him by surprise. Still the interests of the faith were paramount with him. All that had been done had been well done. He would not, if he could, undo any part of it. But did his duty to the faith and to the Holy Church require that he should hunt the remaining brother to death and thus quench the coal that has left? He hoped not. He thought not. And although he would not have allowed it to himself, the words that followed were really a peace offering to the shade of Carlos. Young man, I am willing for my own part to overlook the wild words you have uttered, regarding them as the outpourings of insanity, and making more overdue allowance for your natural fraternal sorrow. Still you must be aware that you have laid yourself open, and not for the first time, to grave suspicion of heresy. I should not only sin against my own conscience, but also expose myself to the penalties of a grievous irregularity did I take no steps for the vindication of the faith and your just and well-merited punishment. Therefore give ear to what I say. This day week I bring the matter before the table of the Holy Office, of which I have the honor to be an unworthy member, and God grant you the grace of repentance and his forgiveness. Having said this, Frééric Arde left the room. He disappears also from our pages, where he occupied a place as a type of the less numerous and less guilty class of persecutors, those who not only thought they were doing God's service. Mune Braga may have thought that, but he was only willing to do God's such service as cost him nothing, but who were honestly anxious to serve him to the best of their ability. His future is hidden from our sight. We cannot even undertake to say whether, when death drew near, if the name of Alvarez de Mignalla occurred to him at all. He reproached himself for his sternness to the brother whom he had consigned to the flames, or for his weakness to the brother to whom he had generously given a chance of life and liberty. It is not usually the most guilty who hear the warning voice that denounces the crimes and threatens their doom. Such words as Don Juan spoke to Frééric Arde could not, by any conceivable possibility, have been adhered in the presence of González de Mune Braga. Soon afterwards, a lay brother, the same who had admitted Don Juan, entered the room and placed wine on the table before him. My lord, the prior bade me say your excellency seemed exhausted and should refresh yourself air you depart. He explained. Juan motioned it away. He could not trust himself to speak, but did Frééric Arde imagine he would either eat bread or drink water beneath the roof that sheltered him? Still the poor man lingered, standing before him with the air of one who had something to say which he did not exactly know how to bring out. You may tell your lord that I am going, said Juan, rising wearily and with a look that certainly told of exhaustion. If you please your noble excellency. And the lay brother stopped and hesitated. Well? Let his excellency pardon me. Could his worship have the misfortune to be related, very distantly no doubt, to one of the heretics who? Don Carlos Alvarez was my brother, said Juan proudly. The poor lay brother due nearer to him and lowered his voice to Mr. U's whisper. Señor and your excellency, he was here in prison for a long time. It was thought that my lord the prior had a kindness for him and wished him better used than they used the criminals in the Santa Casa. It happened that the prisoner whose cell he shared died the day before his removal so that the cell was empty and it fell to my lot to cleanse it. Whilst I was doing it I found this. I think it belonged to him. He drew from beneath his search gown a little book and handed it to Juan, who seized it as a starving man might seize a piece of bread. Hastely taking out his purse, he flung it in exchange to the lay brother, and then, just as the mutton bells began to ring, he buckled on his sword and went forth. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 48 of the Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 48 San Isodre Once More And if with milder anguish now I bear to think of thee in thy forsaken rest, if from my heart be lifted the despair the sharp remorse with healing influence pressed, it is that thou the sacrifice hast blessed and filled my spirit in its inmost cell, with the deep chastened sands that all at last is well. Hemons The cloudless sky above him, the fresh morning air on his cheek, the dew drops on his feet, Don Juan walked along. The river, his own bright Guadalquivir, glistened in the early sunshine, and soon his pathway led him amidst the gray ruins of Old Utalica, while among the brambles that have hid them, glittering lizards startled by his footsteps run in and out. But he saw nothing, felt nothing, save the passionate pain that burned in his heart. During his interview with Free Ricardo he had been practically and for the time what the prior called him insane, mad with rage and hate. But now rage was dying out for the present and giving place to anguish. Is the worst pang earth has to give that of witnessing the sufferings of our beloved? Or is there yet one keener more thrilling, that they should suffer alone? No hand near to help, no voice to speak sympathy, no eye to look ancient kindness on their pain. That they should die, die in anguish and still alone. With eyes turned away and no last word to say. Don Juan was now drinking that bitter cup to its very dregs. What the young brother, his one earthly thigh, had been to him, need not here be told, and assuredly he could not have told it. He had been all his life a thing to protect and shield, as a strong protect the weak, as manhood shields womanhood and childhood. Had God but taken him with his own right hand, Juan would have thought it a light matter, a sorrow easily borne, but instead he stood afar off. He did not help whilst men, cruel as fiends from the bottomless pit, did their worst, their very worst upon him. And with refined self-torture he went through all the horrible details, as far as he knew, or could guess them. Nor did he spare to stop his own heart with that keenest weapon of all. It was for me he endured the question. The cry of his brother's anguish, anguish borne for him, seemed to sound in his ears and to haunt him. He felt that it would haunt him ever more. Of course there was a well of comfort near, which a child's hand might have pointed out to him. All is over now. He suffers no longer. He's at rest. But whoever stoops to drink from that well in the parting thirst of the first hour of such a grif as his. In truth all was over for Carlos, but all was not over for Juan. He had to pass through his dark hour, as really as Carlos had passed through his. Again the agony almost muddened him. Again wild hatred and rage against his brother's torturers rose and searched like a flood within him. And with these were mangled thoughts, two nearly rebellious of him, whom that brother trusted so firmly and served so faithfully, as if he had used his servant hardly and forsaken him in his hour of sorrows need. He shrunk with horror from every wayfarer he chances to meet, imagining that his eyes might have looked on his brother's suffering. But at last he came unawares upon the gate of San Isodro. Left unbarred by some accident, it yielded to his touch, and he entered the monastery grounds. At that very spot, three years ago, the brothers parted, on the day that Carlos avowed his change of faith. Yet not even that remembrance could bring a tear to the hot and angry eyes of Juan. But just then he happened to recollect the book he had received from the lay brother. He took it from its place of concealment and eagerly began to examine it. It was almost filled with writing. But not alas from that beloved hand. So he flung it aside in bitter disappointment. Then becoming suddenly conscious of bodily weakness, he half sat down, half threw himself on the ground. His vigorous frame and his strong nerve saved him from swooning outright. He only lay sick and faint, the blue sky looking black above him, and a strange, indistinct sound as if many voices murmuring in his ears. By and by he became conscious that someone was holding water to his lips, and trying, though with an awkward trembling hand, to lose his doublet at the throat. He drank, shook off his weakness, and looked about him. A very old man in a white tunic and brown mantle was bending over him compassionately. In another moment he was on his feet, and having briefly thanked the aged monk for his kindness, he turned his face to the gate. Nae, my son. The old man interposed. Sanisotro has changed. Changed. Still, the sick and weary never left its gates unneeded, and they shall not begin now. Not now. I pray you come with me to the house, and refresh and rest yourself there. Juan was not reckless enough to refuse, what in truth he sorely needed. He entered the monastery under the guidance of poor old Frey Bernando, who had been passed by, perhaps in scorn, by the persecutors, and so, after all, he had his wish. He should die and be buried in peace, where he had passed his life, from boyhood to extreme old age. Yet there was something sad in the thought that the storm that swept by had left untouched the poor, useless, half-withered tree, while it tore down the young and strong and noble oaks, the pride of the now desolated forest. The few, coward and terrified monks, who had been allowed to remain in the convent, received Don Juan with great kindness. They set food and wine before him, food he could not touch, but wine he accepted with thankfulness. And they almost insisted on his endeavouring to take some rest, assuring him that, when his servant and horses should arrive, they would see them properly cared for, until such time as he might be able to resume his journey. His journey would not brook delay as he knew full well, that his young wife might not be a widow and his babe an orphan, he charged his soul to hold his body strengthened, for the work that both had to do. Back to Nwera for these dear ones as swiftly as the fleetest horses would bear him, then to Seville again, and on board that first ship he could meet with bound for any foreign port. Would the term of grace assigned him by the inquisitors suffice for all this? Certainly not a moment should be lost. I will rest for an hour, he said. But I pray you, my fathers, do me one kindness first. Is there a man here who witnessed? What was done yesterday? A young man came forward. Juan led him into the cell which had been prepared for him to rest in, and leaning against its little window with his face turned away, he murmured one agitated question. Three words comprised the answer. Only, silently, quickly. Juan's breast heaved and his shrunk frame trembled. After a long interval he said, still without looking. Now tell me of the others, name him no more. No less than eight ladies died the martyr's death, said the monk, who dared not before this auditor to conceal his own sentiments. One of them was Senora Maria Gomez. Your Excellency probably knows her story. Her three daughters and her sister died with her. When their sentences were read they embraced on the scaffold and bade each other farewell with tears. Then they comforted each other with holy words about our Lord and his passion, and the home he was preparing for them above. Here the young monk paused for a few moments, then went on, his voice still trembling. There were, moreover, two Englishmen and a Frenchman who all died greatly. Lastly there was Juliano Hernandez. Ah, tell me of him. He died as he had lived. In the morning, when brought out into the court of the Triana, he cried aloud to his fellow sufferers, Courage comrades, now must we show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ. Let us bear faithful testimony to his truth before men, and in a few hours we shall receive the testimony of his approbation before angels and triumph with him in heaven. Though silenced, he continued throughout the day to encourage his companions by his gestures. On the Canadero, he melt down and kissed the stone upon which the stake was erected, and thrust his head among the faggots to show his willingness to suffer. But at the end, having raised his hands in prayer, one of the attendant priests, Dr. Rodriguez, mistook the attitude for a sign that he would recant, and made intercession with the Algozillos to give him a last opportunity of speaking. He confessed his faith in a few strong, brief words, and knowing the character of Rodriguez, told him he thought the same himself, but hid his true belief out of fear. The angry priest bathed him like the pile at once. It was done, but the guards with kind cruelty thrust the martyr through with their lances, so that he passed without much pain into the presence of the Lord whom he served as few had been honoured to do. And Fre Constantino? Juan questioned. He was not, for God took him. They had only his dust to burn. They have sought to slander his memory, saying he raised his hand against his own life. But we knew the contrary. It has reached our ears, I dare not tell you how, that he died in the arms of one of our dear brethren from this place. Poor young Fre Fernando, who closed his eyes in peace. It was from one of the dark underground cells of the Trianon that he passed straight to the glory of God. I thank you for your tidings. Said Juan slowly and faintly. Now I pray of you to leave me. After a considerable time, one of the monks softly opened the door of the visitor's cell. He sat on the pallet, prepared for him. His head buried in his hand. Señor. Said the monk. Your servant has arrived and begs you to excuse his delay. It may be there are some instructions you wish him to receive. Juan roused himself with an effort. Yes. He said. And I thank you. Will you add to your kindness by bidding him immediately procure for us fresh horses, the best and flittest that can be had? He sought his purse, but remembering in a moment what had happened of it, drew a ring from his finger to supply its loss. It was the diamond ring that the Ser De Raminé had given him. A keen pang shot through his heart. No, not that. I cannot part with that. He took two others instead. Old family jewels. Bid him bring these. He said. To Isaac Ozorio, who dwells in La Judiera, any man there will show him the house. Take for them whatever he will give them, and therewith hire fresh horses, the best he can. From the Posada where he rested, leaving our own in pledge. Let him also buy provisions for the way, for my business requires haste. I will explain all to you and on. While the monk did the errand, don Juan sat still, gazing at the diamond ring. Slowly there came back upon his memory the words spoken by Carlos on the day when the sharp facets cut his hand unfelt by him. If he calls me to suffer for him, he may give me such blessed assurance of his love that in the joy of it pain and fear will vanish. Could it be possible he had done this? Oh, for some token, to relieve his breaking heart by the assurance that thus it had been. And yet, wherefore seek a sign? Was not the heroic courage, the calm patience given to that young brother, one so frail and timid, as plain a token of the sunlight of God's peace and presence, as is the bow in the cloud of the sun shining in the heavens? True, but not the less was his soul filled with passionate longing. For one word, only one word, from the leaps that were dust and ashes now. If God would give me that! He moaned. I think I could weep for him. It occurred to him, then, that he might examine the book more carefully than he had done before. Don Juan, of late, had been no great reader except of the Spanish Testament. Instead of glancing rapidly through the volume with a practised eye, he carefully began at the beginning and perused several pages with diligence, and with a kind of compelt and painful attention. The writer of the diary with which the book seemed filled had not prefixed his name. Consequently Juan, who was without a clue to the authorship, saw it in merely the effusions of a penitent, with whose feelings he had but little sympathy. Still he reflected that if the writer had been his brother's fellow prisoner, some mention of his brother would probably reward his persevering surge. So he read on. But he was not greatly interested until at length he came to one passage which ran thus. Christ, an hour lady, forgive me if it be a sin. Of times, even by prayer and fasting, I cannot prevent my thoughts from wandering to the past. Not to the life I lived, and the part I acted in the great war. For that is death to me, and I to it. But to the dear faces my eyes shall never see again. My Costanza. Costanza. Thought Juan with a start. That was my mother's name. My wife. My babe. O God, in thy great mercy, still this hungering and thirsting of the heart. Immediately beneath this entry was another. May 21. My Costanza, my beloved wife, is in heaven. It is more than a year ago, but they did not tell me till today. Thus death only visit the free. Yet another entry caught the eye of Juan. Burning heat today, it would be cool enough in the halls of Nuerra, on the greasy slope of the Sierra Morena. What does my orphan Juan Rodrigo dare? I wonder. Nuerra. Sierra Morena. Juan Rodrigo. Reiterated the astonished reader. What did it all mean? He was tanned and bewildered so that he had scarcely power left even to form a conjecture. At last it occurred to him to turn to the other end of the book. If perchance some name affording a clue to the mystery might be inscribed there. And then he read in another well-known hand a few calm words breathing peace and joy. Quietness and assurance forever. He pressed the loved handwriting to his lips, to his heart. He sobbed over it and wept, blistering it with such burning tears as scarcely come from a strong man's eyes more than once in a lifetime. Then flinging himself on his knees he thanked God, God whom he had doubted, murmured against, almost blasphemed, and who yet had been true to his promise, true to his stride and suffering servant in the hour of need. When he rose he took up the book again, and read and re-read those precious words, all but the first he thought he could comprehend. My beloved father has gone to him in peace. Would the preceding entries throw any light upon that saying? Once more with changed feelings and quickened perceptions he turned back to the records of the penitent's long captivity. Slowly and gradually the secret they revealed unfolded itself before him. The history of the last nine months of his brother's life they clearly traced, and the light it shed illumined another life also, longer, sadder, less glorious than his. One entry almost the last and traced with a trembling hand he read over and over till his eyes grew too dim to see the words. He intrigued of me to pray for my absent one and to bless him, my son, my first born whose face I know not but whom he has taught me to laugh. I do bless thee, all blessing rest upon thee, blessings of heaven above, blessings of the earth beneath, blessings of the deep that live under, but for thee, Carlos, what shall I say? I have no blessing fit for thee, no word of love deep and strong enough to join with that name of thin. Doth not, he say, of whose tenderness though tellest me ours is but the shadow. He will be silent in his lap, but may he read my heart in its silence and bless thee and repay thee when thou commenced to thy home where already thy heart is. It might have been two hours afterwards when the same friendly monk who had narrated to Don Juan the circumstances of the Autodafé came to a price him that his servant had fulfilled his errand and was waiting with the horses. Don Juan rose and met him, his face was sad. It would be a sad face always, but there was in it a look as of one who saw the end and who knew that however dark the way might be, the end was light everlasting. He said, for no concealment was necessary there, truth could hurt no one. See how wondrously God has dealt with me and mine. Here is the record of the life and death of my honored father. For three and twenty years he lay in the Dominican monastery, a prisoner for Christ's sake, and to my heroic martyr brother God has given the honor and joy of unraveling the mystery of his faith, and thus fulfilling our youthful dream. Carlos has found our father. He went forth into the hall and begged the other monks a grateful farewell. Old Frey Bernardo, embraced and blessed him with tears, moved by the likeness now discerned for the first time between the stately soldier and the noble and gentle youth, whose kindness to him during his residence at the monastery three years before he well remembered. Then Don Juan set his face towards Nuera with patient endurance, rather sad than stern, upon his brow and in his heart a grief as deep as life or thought. But no rebellion and no despair, something like resignation had come to him, already he could say or at least try to say, they will be done. And he foresaw, as in the distance, far off and faintly, a time when he might even be able to share in spirit the joy of the crowned and victorious one to whom, in the dark prison, face to face with death, God had so wondrously given the desire of his heart and not denied him the request of his lips. About a fortnight afterwards, a closely veiled lady, dressed in deep mourning, leaned over the side of a merchant vessel and gazed into the sub-fire depths of the bay of Cadiz. A respectable elderly woman was standing near her, holding her pretty dark-eyed babe. They seemed to be under the protection of a Franciscan friar, and of a stately handsome serving man whose bearing and appearance were rather out of keeping with his opposed rank. It was set amongst the crew that the lady was the widow of a rich civilian merchant, who during her residence in London some years before had married an English woman. She was now going to join her kindred in the heretical country, and much compassion was expended on her as she was said to be very Catholic and very pious. It was a signal-proof of these dispositions that she ventured to bring with her as private chaplain the Franciscan friar, who the sailors thought would probably soon fall a martyr to his attachment to the faith. But a few illusions might have been dispelled, if the conversation of the party went for a brief space they had detected themselves could have been overheard. This found more than that the shores of our Spain are fading from us, said the lady to the supposed servant. Not as I should once have done, my Beatrice, though to steal my fatherland, dearest and best of all lands to me, and you, my beloved. Where thou art is my country done one, the sides. She added softly, God is everywhere, and think what it will be to worship him in peace, not making us afraid. And you, my brave, true-hearted Dolores? Asked Don Juan. Señor Don Juan, my country is there, with those that I love best. Said Dolores, with an upward glance of the large, wistful eyes, which had yet, in their sorrowful deaths, a look of peace unknown in past days. What is Spain to me? Spain that would not give to the noblest of them all a few feet of her earth for a grave. Do not let us stain with one bitter thought our last look at these shores. Said Don Juan, with a gentleness that was growing upon him of late. Remember that they who denied a grave to our beloved, are powerless to rob us of one precious memory of him. His grave is in our hearts, his memorial is the faith which every one of us now standing here has learned from him. That is true. Said Donia Beatrice. I think that not all thy teaching, Don Juan, made me understand what precious faith is, until I learned it by his death. He gave up all for Christ, freely and joyfully. Juan continued. While I gave up nothing, save as it was wrenched from my unwilling hands. Therefore for him there is the abundant entrance, the crown of glory. For me, at the best, seekest thou great things for thyself. Seek them not, but thy life will I give unto thee for a pray in all places wither thou goest. Phrase Sebastian, junior at the moment, and happening to overhear the last words, he asked. Have you any plan, senor, as to whither you will go? I have no plan. Don Juan answered. But I think God will guide us. I have indeed a dream. He added, after a pause. Which may or may not come true eventually. My thoughts often turned to that great new world, where at least there should be room for truth and liberty. It was our childhood's dream to go forth to the new world and to find our father. And the lesser half of it, comparatively worthless as it is, may fitly fall to my lot to fulfill, another worthier than I having done the rest. His voice grew gentler, his whole countenance softened as he continued. That the prize was his, not mine, I rejoice. It is but an earnest of the nobler victory, the grander triumph he enjoys now, amongst those who stand evermore before the king of kings, called chosen and faithful.